' Rather a come-down from a star! There's a big story
in this. Your party will have to dine with us correspondents, and talk
things over. The crowd will be delighted. Say yes, Mrs. Beckett!"
I heard no more, for I was on my way to Brian. But by the time I'd
thanked Dierdre, been slightly snubbed by her, and successfully
presented to Sirius, it was settled that we should spend our evening at
Royalieu with the correspondents. The Beckett auto was ready, but the
dog's joy was too big for the biggest car, so Brian and I walked to the
chateau, and Jack Curtis with us, to exchange stories of _le grand chien
policier_, late "Sherlock."
Matching the new history on to the early mystery was like fitting in the
lost bits of a jigsaw puzzle--bits which, when missing, left the picture
void. Between Brian and the war correspondent the pattern came to life:
but there's one piece in the middle which can never be restored. Only
one person could supply that: a German officer, and he is no longer in
this world.
Jack Curtis found the police dog, badly wounded, at a place near
Paschendaele, where the Germans had temporary headquarters and had been
driven out after a fierce struggle. One of the dog's legs was broken,
and blood had dried on his glossy coat, but he "registered delight" (as
moving picture people say) when he limped out of a half-ruined house to
welcome the rush of British khaki. The few inhabitants who had lived in
the village through the German occupation, knew the dog as "Siegfried,"
to which name he had obstinately refused to answer.
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